Selwyn Hall
by uchiha.s
Summary: The infamous Lord Riddle is tricked into taking on orphan Hermione Granger as his apprentice at Selwyn Hall. Historical AU with magic. Tomione, Remione, some Snapione.
1. Chapter 1

The sky was aflame with dawn when Hermione burst through the wooden kitchen door and out into the snowy morning air, the rolling moors before her blanketed with mist, the winter roses silvered with frost. Leaves crunched underfoot as her thin-soled shoes slapped against the stone. The old rusted hinges of the garden door shrieked; the wood banged against stone, and she panted as she ran, and then—

"Hermione!"

The powerful voice that she loved so well, strangled with anguish, echoed through the morning—but she did not turn back. She felt the thin cool fingers of truly powerful magic reach for her, and without looking back she cast them off from her. To her the magic's threat was no longer in its strength but in its familiarity.

"You cannot leave," he insisted, the echoes of his words scattering across the moors around her, as though the world were laughing at her now, a cruel audience to her pain.

She knew the risks, knew the cost—it was the greatest cost, perhaps, but it would not stop her. From the beginning she had known she would be prepared to pay whatever the price.

She could not turn back now—she would not lose her nerve.

 **Two Years Ago**

"You must admit she's not like other girls. She hasn't the same path ahead of her."

Remus' soft voice was barely audible and Hermione had to strain to hear. Pressed up against the heavy wooden door, she eavesdropped on the discussion of what was to be done about her future. She had no betrothed waiting for her as was usual and proper for the few, rare young women graduating from Hogwarts.

"She will not be marrying, no," conceded Severus Snape evenly. "But who would wed her? There is no proof of her stock. She doesn't even come from a rich Muggle family, let alone a Wizarding one. Be that as it may, she is hardly my responsibility."

"It isn't a matter of responsibility, Severus. I've not seen talent like that in all of my years of teaching—"

"—All five of them, yes." Hermione could easily picture Snape's lip curling as he spoke.

"We cannot simply let such talent go to waste. It's— it's unethical," Remus insisted.

"Even you are not nearly so foolish as to bring this up without some sort of plan," said Snape now. She pictured him settling back, his black eyes betraying his inherent mix of superiority and insecurity. "So what is it, then? What is your plan?"

"…It's Riddle."

There was a choking, sputtering sound; something in between a callous, disgusted laugh and a noise of disbelief.

"I never knew you to have such a sense of humor, Lupin."

"He sent a letter some years ago—"

"I hardly venture to think that when he wrote, 'talented apprentice,' he really meant, 'drowned rat of a mudblood.'"

"The letter specifically stated that he would be open to receiving an apprentice of extraordinary talent. At the time, we had no one who would have fit, but Miss Granger is the brightest witch of her age—"

"Even if she is the so-called brightest witch of her age, she is a witch—a girl. Riddle is rather famously no one's fool—do you forget whose gold upholds Hogwarts, Lupin? We cannot send off a girl to one of our current benefactors. It would be poor business. And that does not even cover the matter of her blood status, which—"

"We'll bring it up to Dumbledore." The desperation of Remus' voice told Hermione that this was his trump card—his only one. She held her breath, afraid that the sound of her own breathing might obscure Snape's acquiescence—or his refusal.

"We will do no such thing," said Snape comfortably. She heard the scrape of a chair. "And now you have overstayed your welcome, Lupin. You may leave."

"We are equals, Severus. I merely brought this up to you as a matter of courtesy—but I see you will not be budged on the matter. I'll bring it up to Dumbledore myself."

Hermione scrambled away from the door on light feet and ducked into the darkness of the corridor, her heavy skirts rustling with the movement. Remus' tall but slouching figure appeared in silhouette as he turned to her, his young face prematurely lined with weariness. Hermione opened her mouth to speak but he jerked his head sharply and walked past her, placing a warm, sure hand at the small of her back and leading her away from Snape's rooms at top speed. Her skin prickled with awareness of his touch, and his breathing grew shallow with longing, but neither acknowledged it.

When at last they were a safe distance from Snape and alone in a dark, stray corridor, Remus took his hand from her back and turned to face her.

"We already knew we were swimming upstream," he finally said in a low voice, shaking his head.

"Who is this Riddle?" Hermione asked curiously. She pictured an old man in lush robes surrounded by endless stacks of gleaming gold Galleons, perhaps living in a large, sprawling home in London. Remus grimaced.

"If he weren't your only chance, I would have chosen someone else for you. Anyone else, really," he confided. He turned his dark sad eyes on Hermione now, and her stomach turned. She knew that look. "Are you quite sure about this, Miss Granger?" His voice softened. "You could be quite happy, marrying—"

"I could not." Her voice was too hard and she let out a huff, feeling guilty. She knew that Professor Lupin—or rather, Remus, though she dared not refer to him as such publicly, even here, alone—only wanted the best for her. Out of anyone at Hogwarts, he understood her best. He was trying to help her, not trying to keep her powerless, as others were.

"He's not a good man, Miss Granger." Remus' voice was barely audible. "The gold he gives us to keep Hogwarts running is little better than blood money. No—it is blood money."

It was all too easy to picture balancing scales in her mind—her morals versus her ambitions. It seemed her ambitions were heavier, were worth more—in her mind, the scale holding her ambitions thunked downward.

"It doesn't matter to me. Apprenticeships are only a few years—"

"—Only a few years of working under a known master of the Dark Arts—"

"—You suggested this!" Hermione exploded in a hiss. Remus sighed.

"Yes, but it comes with a cost, Miss Granger." His eyes searched hers. "I suggested this because I know and understand how much your magic means to you, but it comes with a cost. Is it one you're willing to pay?"

"I'll pay anything."

* * *

Remus walked towards Dumbledore's rooms with unusual purpose and confidence in his stride. He rounded the corner, and Severus Snape, standing before the entrance to Dumbledore's rooms, came into view.

"You will not—" Severus began icily, but before Remus could retaliate, the gargoyle guarding Dumbledore's rooms moved to the side, revealing two tall figures and thus silencing both men.

Dumbledore was tall and ancient, with long silver hair hanging to his waist, garbed in robes almost the same silver as his hair.

Next to him stood a tall man—taller even than he—and far younger, perhaps thirty or thirty-five, with dark hair and dark, handsome eyes glimmering with cleverness set into a face so pale, angular, and ethereal that he might have been carved from marble and set to glow within a cathedral. His dark robes, though simple, were finely made and fashionably cut. He came from money, it seemed: everything from the gleam of health in his hair to the shine in his boots bespoke wealth. His smooth, pale lips twitched with something like amusement as he met Remus' eyes. Remus felt a jolt of inferiority.

"Two professors, out and about, not teaching classes? It seems the education has grown quite lax, Dumbledore." The man's voice was clear and cold as he quipped, arching his brows, his eyes never leaving Remus'. Snape was not capable of blushing, it seemed, but Remus felt his own face grow warm.

"I suppose it has," said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling with humor. "And these are two of my finest professors, too. This is Severus Snape, whom I believe you have met—" Dumbledore gestured to Snape, who gave a short, stiff motion something in between a nod and a bow, "and Remus Lupin."

Remus considered himself modern and as such stepped forward to shake the man's hand—but the man made no move to do any such thing. Instead, hands clasped behind his back, he looked down upon Remus with ill-concealed amusement and disdain. Remus let his hand fall, feeling all the more foolish.

"I hear you go by Voldemort these days, but to old professors like me you'll always be young Tom Riddle. Funny how stubborn we can be," Dumbledore mused. Remus' breath caught in his throat as he witnessed hatred bloom in the man's eyes before it was hastily buried. Riddle's pale lips curved into a smirk.

"Perhaps it's your mind going, old man," said Riddle smoothly. "Not what it used to be, perhaps?"

"Perhaps," conceded Dumbledore lightly, as though Riddle hadn't just broadly insulted one of the most powerful wizards in the world. "I did just have a birthday, you know."

"You get one every year," quipped Riddle, his tone not quite as light as Dumbledore's. His expression hardened. "Where is this apprentice? I've not got all day."

"Time is money, so they say," agreed Dumbledore, nodding for them to walk with him. Riddle scoffed.

"Money is meaningless, old man. I thought you at least knew that."

For once united in their abject horror, Remus and Severus walked behind the two men and glanced between each other.

So this was the infamous Lord Riddle.

"Perhaps to you it is, Tom, but to us, money is quite meaningful."

"Are you asking for more funds? Do so directly; your obtuseness bores me. Not that I'll give it to you. I've taken on some new projects that direct my money elsewhere—and if this apprentice truly is worthwhile, I'll have to fund him as well."

Once again Severus and Remus glanced at each other, their minds each snagging on a particular word. Him?

So, Dumbledore hadn't told Riddle yet.

Remus wished, quite powerfully, in that moment for telepathy.

He would have loved to be able to ask Miss Granger to at least, for once, comb her wild hair.

They approached Gryffindor Tower, though Professor McGonagall approached them now, heading them off. She met Riddle's gaze coolly. Remus supposed these two knew each other somehow, but how McGonagall, a practical witch from modest—at best—circumstances could know this man, he could not fathom.

"Apologies, Professor Dumbledore, but I've just checked the dormitories—the apprentice is out on a venture to Hogsmeade to purchase supplies for the apprenticeship."

Remus felt Snape glance meaningfully at him, and his own gaze bored into Dumbledore's back. Well-played, Dumbledore.

"Ah, thank you, Minerva," Dumbledore said graciously, and he turned to Riddle now. "Unfortunately, it seems you'll have to wait and have your new apprentice delivered to you."

Riddle hardly looked fooled. He arched his brows and looked at Snape and Remus.

"Well, clearly old Dumbledore's got something to hide," he surmised, looking heavily at them both. Even Snape looked uncomfortable under the man's piercing dark gaze. "But I suppose I'll find out eventually. I can hardly wait—if you're lucky, old man, the suspense just might kill me."

* * *

Hermione was walking along the desolate grounds, hunting for a particular plant that only unfurled its remarkable gold leaves in twilight, when she heard leaves and grass crunching underfoot behind her. She looked up and saw Remus striding towards her, and she felt a quiver of anticipation in her belly, not solely borne of fear of the result of his discussion with Dumbledore.

"Well, Dumbledore came up with a plan at the very last minute," he said by way of greeting, and he exhaled as he reached her, his breath clouding in the air. The walk from the castle to here had breathed some life into his pale, drawn features, and for a moment he actually looked his own age. The loveliness of his soul was more apparent now, in the depth of his intelligent brown eyes and the gentleness of his brow. She sometimes wildly thought if she did not kiss him, she might simply die. No, that is foolish, she told herself in such moments, "Not guaranteed to work, but it'll at least get you to Riddle's door, which is further than you would have made it if he knew…"

"…That I'm an orphan girl?" Hermione prompted hastily, stepping forward. Remus' brow furrowed and he looked at her with such misery and sympathy that it left her breathless.

"That you're a Muggle-born orphan girl, Hermione."

His words hardly surprised her. She watched Remus' mouth twist into a wry smile. "Sorry, that was inappropriate," he added softly, looking down. It took her a moment to realize he was referring to the fact that he had called her by her first name.

"There's no one to hear," she muttered, gesturing to the sprawling empty fog-laden grounds surrounding them. "So what will happen when he learns the truth?"

"I haven't any idea," he confessed, raking a hand through his light hair and looking past her shoulder at the lake. "It will not be good, I can assure you that. Your only hope is to impress him immediately. He's no fool—if he can see your abilities, he will forget everything else, I guarantee you that much. Your brilliance will be so much more interesting to him than your blood status, though that is certainly something he's known to prize. It will be interesting to see what matters to him more…"

"I'll impress him," she resolved. "When do I leave?"

Remus looked away. Her gaze fell upon his jawline, the jawline she had recently come to love.

"Tomorrow," he said hoarsely.

* * *

An hour later, Hermione, with her hair brushed and pulled back in a bun, still wearing her mud-soaked dress, and running late, hastened along to the Great Hall.

The few students that were dining this late sat at the long tables designated for the students; Dumbledore, Snape, Remus sat at the high table, bathed in candlelight, the castle's best silver gleaming even in the meager light. Hermione prepared to take her usual seat at one of the tables, but Dumbledore summoned her to them.

Remus felt Snape trod on his foot.

"She looks like a pauper," the black-haired man hissed.

"She is a pauper."

"Riddle took his leave—urgent business called him back to Selwyn Hall, his estate," explained Snape as Hermione arrived at the high table. Flushed and out of breath, she glanced at Remus, then at Dumbledore. He was looking like he was trying very hard to keep something amusing to himself. "And this meant he left without a key piece of information," added Snape in a strained voice, scowling at Dumbledore, who was innocently tapping his fingers together.

"He's actually taking me on as an apprentice?" Hermione knew intuitively to play dumb—there was assuredly some sort of impropriety to Remus having already confronted her about this matter privately.

And then…there had been something even more improper about the look in his eyes and the break of his voice when he'd said, tomorrow. Her heart swelled and she took her seat mechanically, feeling her eyes burn. The walk back to the castle had been silent, the misty air thick with all of the things they could not say.

"He thinks you are a man, so, yes, he is—for now. And Professor Dumbledore here has as of yet not corrected him," said Snape, barely keeping his rage tamped down as his nostrils flared, "and our school's greatest benefactor will most likely be quite displeased when a mudblood girl shows up on his doorstep!"

"Severus," said Remus sharply. Unfortunately, the idea of the word 'mudblood' as offensive was a far more modern notion that had only breached the castle walls with Dumbledore and Remus—the rest of the school was stuck in a different time, perhaps even as far back as when halfbloods and mudbloods were considered subhuman, when kings burned witches at the stake. Hermione instinctively recoiled at the injustice of it but she said nothing; she knew it would be foolish to speak now; foolishness that could cost her the only chance she had at actually learning any real magic. She held her tongue, waiting for the unpredictable next move of Dumbledore. His eyes twinkled merrily.

"You must be hungry, Miss Granger—I see you spent all day outside," he observed, nodding to her muddy skirts. Hermione took her seat at the high table, in the place this Lord Riddle would have sat.

"You depart tomorrow at dawn. We have arranged for a carriage," said Snape tightly, apparently too angry to eat.

Hermione's plate filled with rich food and her goblet filled with pumpkin juice. She longed to scurry away to the library, for she had so many questions… Selwyn Hall... The name was an old Wizarding name, which meant that this Riddle was of thoroughly Pureblood stock...though his name was not Selwyn, interestingly. Though her determination was powerful, her stomach did flip at the idea of appearing at the estate, not nearly what Riddle was expecting... She could withstand confrontations when necessary but that did not mean she relished them…

"He demanded only the most promising, most brilliant student." Remus' voice lilted over the sound of silverware clinking as they ate in otherwise silence. "We unilaterally agreed it to be you."

Hermione said nothing; she ate to hide how she beamed. And then—her heart swelled and broke in one moment—tomorrow…

"And yet—" Snape began, but faltered.

"Riddle may surprise you yet, Severus," said Dumbledore gently. He winked at Hermione. She heard Snape scoff.

"I know him quite well, Dumbledore—better than you. He is not a man who appreciates dishonesty or trickery from those with whom he associates, and we are dependent upon his gold."

"I have told no lies," said Dumbledore innocently. Snape snorted into his potatoes.

"I do not see how you can be so calm about this." He glanced at Hermione with disgust.

"How do you know him, Professor?" Hermione piped up, eager to end the discussion. It was doing nothing for her courage, which flickered like a dying candle. Snape almost seemed more surprised than angry that she had dared to speak.

"Professor Snape assisted him in a number of his discoveries...both publishable and un-publishable," added Remus pointedly. Snape was indifferent to Remus' implied accusations.

"We attended Hogwarts at the same time, and continued to interact professionally prior to my accepting a teaching position here," dismissed Snape. "Eat your food and ask no more insolent questions."

"Severus—" chided Remus ineffectually. Hermione was hungry enough to do as told... for now. Snape was hardly a man to be pushed and when pushed he usually only provided more sourness anyway. She ate in silence and thought of Riddle and Selwyn Hall. She pictured a grand, old-fashioned estate, everything gilded, though she was certain that Selwyn was a Slytherin family name, in which case everything would likely be draped in green velvet and edged in silver. Perhaps it was situated in London, nestled in Hyde Park—or perhaps on the outskirts...

And if Snape and Riddle had attended school together, that made him far younger than she had anticipated—for although Snape looked much older, rumors and gossip placed him at about thirty-five to forty.

Something about that notion sent a jolt of nervousness through her belly. The image of a corpulent old man, the buttons of his robes straining and sweat beading at his receding hairline with the effort of living, was cracked. Something about that seemed easier to her than a younger man.

She was dismissed after she had eaten a sufficient portion of her meal. Instead of returning to her own room, however, she went to one of the classrooms, where she attempted to use magic to fashion new dresses for herself. In the dungeon classroom, she stood in her underclothes and worked from a book on sewing spells.

Hermione stared at her reflection in the mirror, a plain girl garbed in dresses each more plain than the one before it, with high collars, minimal details, and full, modest skirts, all in black, grey, and muted, somber blues. In the mirror she saw Professor McGonagall—her idol—step into the room, also plainly dressed. Professor McGonagall was the only female professor at Hogwarts and had never married. In her, Hermione supposed—hoped—she was seeing her future self.

"Professor Lupin said you would be leaving in the morning," she said by way of greeting, clearing her throat. She was not a sentimental woman. "I have some books you will be needing."

"Oh, Professor," sighed Hermione, turning to face the woman and hearing pins and needles drop on the flagstone floor. She felt her eyes burning with tears.

"No need to grow emotional, Miss Granger," quipped McGonagall. "Riddle will be an excellent tutor. His skillset is beyond well-rounded."

There was a tone in her voice that meant something. Hermione peered at her curiously.

"So he does dabble in the Dark Arts," she confirmed. McGonagall arched her brows and snorted.

"That is not the biggest challenge that you face, Miss Granger," she said plainly. Hermione stepped down from the stool and hugged the fabric to her form, embarrassed to be in such a state around someone she held in such high regard.

McGonagall stared at her, then looked away, shaking her head. She set the books down on a low stool and began sorting through them. "This text on Transfiguration is somewhat outdated, but—"

"What is my biggest challenge?" She was loath to interrupt McGonagall but she couldn't bear her curiosity any longer. McGonagall straightened, adjusting her spectacles. She cast a few wards about the room.

When she looked back at Hermione, it was with such a brutal hardness that Hermione braced herself to hear something that she would not like.

"Miss Granger, there is a very good reason that Hogwarts typically avoids mixed-sex apprenticeships."

Hermione balked.

"That will hardly be an issue for me—"

"For you, of course, it will not be a matter at all. You are a sensible person and I trust your judgment. …But men are not so strong-willed or sensible as women." The slanderous phrase was magically contained in the walls but it was no less shocking, however much Hermione agreed. "There may come a point where you will be forced to make some difficult decisions about your education and how to proceed—or whether to proceed at all."

The two women gazed at each other.

"You're not suggesting—"

"Of course not," she snapped. "You must respect yourself above all else, never forget that. But it comes at a cost."

She thought of Remus' words from before. She thought of her reply.

I'll pay anything.

It was no less true now than it had been hours before. McGonagall looked away now, straightening her spectacles. Hermione blinked rapidly.

"I trust myself to protect myself and respect myself," she said now. "But I cannot pass on such a chance just because there might potentially be some sort of romantic matter," she sputtered, her face reddening.

"I would hardly call the matter romantic," McGonagall said dryly.

"Is it true that Riddle practices the Dark Arts?" Hermione pressed. McGonagall pondered for a moment.

"There have been rumors," she admitted now, straightforward as ever. "But there have also been such rumors about Professor Snape, yet Professor Dumbledore insists he trusts him with his life."

"Have you ever met Lord Riddle?"

"I saw him, once, at a ball nearly twenty years ago," said McGonagall, narrowing her eyes as she recalled the event. "He was a very young man, then. Perhaps no more than fifteen. At the time he was quite unforgettable for many reasons, but it's been such a long time—I cannot know what sort of man he is now."

They stood in silence, each woman attempting to suppress her emotions.

"You have been the person upon whom I model myself," Hermione said now, tears streaming down her cheeks. "You have been my idol and you will always be."

McGonagall retrieved a tartan handkerchief from thin air and dabbed her eyes, turning away from her.

"Really, Miss Granger, you're hardly traveling abroad. There's no need to be so sentimental," she reproved, her slim back straight, though Hermione knew the older woman did not mean it.

After some time, McGonagall took her leave, and Hermione faintly heard the woman let out a single sob as she escaped into the corridor.

With tears streaming down her own face, Hermione mechanically went through the motions of sewing a garment with magic, watching as she was transformed from an unruly but free girl to a modest and severe woman before her own eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Present Day**_

Her legs burned. Her lungs screamed. She could have Apparated, but to where? She sprinted to the cliffs, feeling the wet spray of the ocean on her face. Hermione turned round to see just how little distance she had put between herself and Selwyn—and now she stood precisely in the place where it had all begun, where her carriage had nearly toppled over into the sea. She wanted to laugh, were her lungs not so empty and raked through.

If she had known then what she knew now, would she have stayed?

…Would she have even _stopped_ the carriage from toppling over into the sea?

There was no time for such thoughts. Hermione rooted along the ground for sticks and, with a few spells, Transfigured a small rowboat. The effort of such a trick nearly killed her. Her magic was seeping away...

She would have to travel by sea; she would be found on land far too easily. She hovered the little boat down the hillside, closer to the shoreline, and picked her way through the slippery rocks. She dropped the boat into the black water and was nearly thrown to the rocks by the splash. She clumsily scampered along and fell into the rocking boat; she distantly heard _his_ voice scream her name. With shaking, soaking wet hands, she cast a weak Disillusionment spell, and she faded into the sea.

The boat rocked with the waves as she ventured further into the sea; she watched those dark cliff faces, and saw _his_ figure appear atop them, his cloak whipping behind him.

"Hermione!" he called, one last time, his voice carrying on the wind.

She turned away, her tears mixing with the sea spray on her cheeks. He knew she was there, even if he could not see her, but she could not—no, _would not_ —call back to him.

 _You must respect yourself above all else, never forget that. But it comes at a cost._

 _ **Two Years Ago**_

Dawn broke.

Hermione had determined how to perform an Undetectable Extension charm, and now proudly carried her entire library of books that she was allowed to take with her. Clad in one of the modest grey dresses that she had taken all night to sew, with a heavy, plain black cloak on top and her normally wild hair pulled back into a severe bun, she towed her belongings—mostly books—to the entrance of the Great Hall.

Professors McGonagall, Lupin, and Dumbledore were there to see her off. Snape had begged off, insisting that he did not want to continue to be part of this 'charade.' She had overheard the argument, loud as it was, earlier between the professors.

A black carriage, pulled by thestrals, waited for her by the doors to the Great Hall.

"The journey to Selwyn Hall will be long. There is food in the carriage for when you become hungry. You won't arrive until nightfall," explained McGonagall, pragmatic as always. Her spectacles fogged in the morning air as Hermione realized she was growing emotional. The older woman stepped aside, and Hermione fought the urge to embrace her. It would have displeased McGonagall to have her emotions acknowledged in such a way.

"Have you brought enough books?" twinkled Dumbledore, nodding to her bags which bulged in spite of the extension charm. Hermione beamed at him, then watched as he guided McGonagall back into the castle rather tactfully, leaving Hermione alone in the dawn with Remus. She could not help but balk at this—if he really understood the nature of her feelings for Remus, it was so improper to leave her alone with him…

But Remus stood before her now, a head taller than she, and though his face was young, it was lined prematurely, and his brown hair was streaked with grey before his age warranted it. She knew why he was so aged, so worn and grey, and she loved him for it; she had once read that pity was the heart of love and she knew such words to hold truth.

He was the man who had argued for her position here at Hogwarts—he had advocated for her through everything. She owed so much to him, and though her considerable pride insisted that she take ownership for her own accomplishments, her own self awareness, also considerable, told her that she should be thankful for and humbled by this man's help. In spite of his own burden under which he was cursed to suffer he had given her everything in her life that she now had and loved—including himself.

Their eyes met. Oh, but she loved him.

"You must write," blustered Remus now, struggling with his own emotions. "You must write every single day—Selwyn Hall is so old; there will be so much incredible history to it, so many secrets in its walls. And you must describe Riddle and all of your adventures to me, because the castle will be so boring..."

 _...Without you..._ were the words left unsaid.

They stood there, the nature of their relationship pendulous.

Remus had been like a father, then like a brother, to her. And had she been any other girl, it would have been so _easy,_ so _natural,_ for their relationship to evolve once more, into something _more,_ now that she was marriageable, now that he was a bachelor, though he was twenty years older than she. The notion that this option existed, however, held little weight. She had no true sense if he returned her affections, and moreover, to marry him would be to sacrifice her independence.

 _But would it be so horrible...?_

She would now turn away from that option, perhaps forever.

It seemed, at the moment, unbearable. He was perfect: he was kind, he was bright, he was loving, he was unselfish. He was patient. He was gentle.

"You have been everything to me," she confessed.

"Well, now, someone else will be everything to you. I must admit, I'm jealous of Riddle—teaching someone brilliant as you is a pleasure," he said softly.

Perhaps there was some weakness in her too, because at his words, something in her ribcage—perhaps her heart—twinged with a singular kind of pain. _Would it be so horrible,_ she wondered, a worn path in her own mind she had traced so often she knew it at each beat of her heart, _to sacrifice myself for such a worthy man?_

Could it not, possibly, be worth sacrificing her independence to then know what his hands felt like upon her bare skin, to feel his hold on her tighten in the night, to guard him from himself and his curse at every full moon?

They gazed hungrily at each other for a moment longer, each memorizing the other's face. Remus' head began to incline toward hers, and hope swelled within her.

Then, Hermione turned away. She could not say why she did it.

She entered the carriage alone. She heard Remus shut the door behind her, ensconcing her in the darkness of the carriage, and then he uttered a sharp, practiced command to the thestrals—and then the lake and trees were blurring past her, and she was leaving forever.

Hours went by. Hermione wished to read, but the ride was too bumpy, no matter how many spells she attempted to hold her books steady. She hated to simply be alone with her thoughts and fears, boxed into this stuffy carriage, jostled along. She watched the countryside fly by intently; as they traveled south, where winter was not so close, the autumn colours grew more vibrant, those last ecstatic shouts of crimson and orange set aglow by sunlight. They rode along roads lined with ancient crumbling stone walls, under trees that were so red they appeared to be aflame, through tumbling, tangled moor, through flat, tidy forest. But they weren't heading towards London, she was certain of it—if they were, they would have used the main roads.

The flaming sun descended and cast the countryside in stark relief. Everything turned silvered lavender, and even in her carriage Hermione became cold. The countryside grew more wild and ragged, and soon that crumbling stone wall that they had been following disappeared completely. Hermione ate some of the food that had been provided, but her stomach was too unsettled to make much progress.

Hours later, near dusk, they came upon rolling moor.

In the distance, on the crest of the moors, she spotted a lone figure of a tall, lean man, silhouetted in the growing darkness, and her heart shuddered. There was something _wrong_ about him.

They were traveling toward him, she realized. Were they on the Selwyn Hall property yet? Was this silhouette a servant, come to greet her? It seemed an odd place to meet them. Distantly she could hear the crash of waves, but she couldn't see the sea anywhere.

And then, as they approached the man and were mere meters from him—she saw nothing clearly of him but a flash of dark hair—it all happened quite fast.

There was an explosion of sod and grass; the thestrals whined like horses and the carriage was sent flying as flames erupted to the sky. Hermione screamed and grappled for her wand as the carriage rolled and tumbled along the hillside; she cast a panicked spell to stop its rocking, and it abruptly came to a halt. She was thrown to the side of the carriage, which now was facing the ground. The contents of her trunks were scattered everywhere.

Panting and gasping, she rose on shaking legs and smacked the side of the carriage—which now faced the sky—and banged the door open. She stared at it, now able to hear the sound of the waves quite clearly, and able to see the night sky, slowly becoming dotted with stars. Just as she wondered how in Merlin's name she was going to get out, a man's face blocked her view of the sky.

He was uncommonly handsome—for a moment she thought she might be hallucinating—with skin pale as alabaster and hair and eyes dark as ebony, though she was certain, somehow, that he was not the man she had seen earlier.

"The Hogwarts Crest on the carriage—where's my apprentice?" the man demanded. Hermione's stomach dropped.

This was Lord Riddle.

It had to be.

But she had imagined their meeting, and her consequent explanation, to be a little less chaotic than this. She had imagined stepping out of the carriage, garbed in her plain but new clothes, in a stately and refined manner. She had not imagined appearing at the bottom of a carriage, mussed and bruised and dripping blood. She smiled weakly up at him.

"Right here," she confessed. "I stopped the carriage but I'm not sure I can get out." She paused, her eyes meeting his. "Who was that man—"

" _You're_ the apprentice. Really." He swore an oath she'd not heard before though she was clever enough to interpret the meaning, and her cheeks flushed. "No wonder that stupid old man looked so amused." She guessed he meant Dumbledore and she gasped at how he spoke of Dumbledore. His face disappeared from view as she heard him jump off the carriage.

Fearful that he wasn't going to help her, she mentally scanned through all of the spells she knew, and then braced herself as she cast one to hopefully roll the carriage once forward.

There was more force than she'd expected, and she was pitched forward. She smacked into the door and felt something hot trickle down her forehead. Dazed and in pain, she stumbled out of the carriage on weak legs to find Riddle standing before her, looking shocked, silhouetted by brilliant flames, and she heard the roar of the sea behind her. She looked back over her shoulder.

The carriage sat pendulously on a cliff overlooking the sea.

One more roll and she would have fallen in.

The impact of the carriage against the rocks would have likely killed her. There was no sign of the thestrals.

"Who was that man?" she asked again, looking back to Riddle, her heart racing. "There was a man who caused some sort of explosion—"

"There was no man," said Riddle, as he approached her. "You stopped the carriage by yourself—so you're not _entirely_ useless." He studied her as she studied him, too in shock to bother herself with manners. Absently she cast a complicated dousing spell and Riddle glanced back at the now-doused flames in further surprise.

He was tall—taller than even Dumbledore, perhaps—and wearing a fashionably-cut, well-made coat with both Muggle and Wizarding elements of style. He had a tall, elegant physique and shrewd dark eyes and pale lips, his jawline and cheekbones almost too sharp. Out here in the dark smudged landscape, he looked like a rare jewel among weeds.

Just beyond him there was a gash in the ground—remnants of the explosion. He led a gleaming black horse, which stood calmly—too calmly—behind him.

"There was a man," she pressed on, "standing on the hill, and he—"

"You have traveled a long way and hit your head," he said now, as he swung himself up onto his horse with ease. "I will send for a servant to fetch you. Please stay there."

"So you'll accept me as—" but her words died on the wind as she watched his horse set easily into a gallop over the hill. She gathered her skirts and trotted towards the crest to watch, and there, on the next hill in the distance, Selwyn Hall rose up like a fortress before her.

Riddle, on his black horse, his traveling cloak cast out behind him, moved like a ghost along the landscape.

Having gingerly gathered her things and done her best to mend the gash in her forehead, Hermione stared out at the thrashing sea. It was quite late now—it had to be at least eight o'clock. She at last heard the _clop clop_ of horses and turned round to see a hunched, stout cloaked figure on a muddy brown horse, holding an enchanted lantern and guiding another silvery-grey horse towards her. The man's hand was revealed as he held the lantern up, slowing to come to rest before her. The hand gleamed in the spare moonlight—it looked to be made of some kind of metal but moved fluidly, liquidly. Her stomach turned at the sight even as some sort of thrill raced in her blood.

Only dark magic could create something like that.

"Can you ride a horse?" he rasped with little authority. In the dim light she could see he had a mousy, whiskered face, partially obscured by the hood of his cloak. He seemed a timid and pathetic sort of man, in stark contrast to Riddle.

"Y-yes," she said, unsettled by the metallic hand, though a deeper part of her deeply admired the powerful magic undoubtedly behind it. He waited, making impatient noises, as she slung her bags upon the spare horse's saddle and unsteadily clambered onto it. The horse was docile enough, and soon they were moving at a canter towards Selwyn. "Has Riddle accepted me as his apprentice?" she called above the winds as they rode. The man rode ahead of her and said nothing.

She thought of Remus, of McGonagall, of her four-poster bed in her own room in the castle. She reflected on all that she had left behind. And, as they reached Selwyn, she wondered at what she was possibly taking on, and whether she was prepared for it.

Selwyn Hall was certainly old—perhaps from the time of kings. Its stone facade overlooked a sparse lawn, its pointed arches spiked upward into the night sky. Beyond the right side, she could see what once must have been a fine garden, which rolled towards the sea. On the manor's left, there lay tangled woods, already barren of leaves.

Though intimidating, there was an ancient, thrilling beauty to it. Hermione's horse slowed to a trot as the man led them around the right side, through the remains of the gardens. The autumn's last roses dotted the masses of thorns and leaves among the gravel paths. They wended through the gardens and eventually came to a side door. From inside, jewel-like light cast squares of gold onto the dusky path. Finally—a sign of warmth, of life!

"Go there. Lady Lestrange will be waiting for you."

Hermione slid off the horse, grasping her things, and watched the stout man lead both horses away, presumably to stables around the back. She thought the name 'Lestrange' sounded quite elegant—she must be the head of the house, she surmised. She imagined an elderly, stately housekeeper with a dainty lace cap.

Hermione opened the door into a low-ceilinged, packed kitchen, which smelled strongly of magical herbs. There was no one in the kitchen, though pots on top of the stoves bubbled away merrily, and there was a roaring fire in the hearth. Feeling the first tinge of relief, Hermione set her bags down.

"Hello?" she called out.

House Elves appeared with resounding cracks and clamored towards her, but a shadowed figure appeared across the kitchen and they were immediately silenced against their own will.

She was voluptuous and slightly plump in a sensuous way, with wild black hair hanging down her back, and heavily-lidded eyes lined with kohl, and a rebellious dusting of freckles along the bridge of her nose. Her gown, though black, was made with high-quality satin and lace, and did far more for her figure than Hermione's did for hers. They clearly viewed clothing as having very, very different purposes. "Are you Lady Lestrange?" The woman took a few steps into the room, her skirts swishing sensuously, as she regarded Hermione like she was a horse for sale and likely not worth its price.

"I am," she said now, her voice like a blade. "I will show you to your room."

Only somewhat put off by Lady Lestrange's lack of manners—she had spent the better part of ten years in Snape's acquaintance, of course; she was rather accustomed to poor affect—Hermione gathered up her things and followed the woman.

That night, she lay in her bed, listening to the night sounds of Selwyn Hall. Try as she might, she could think of little else but the man's silhouette atop the hill.

 _Riddle must be hiding something,_ she decided. There was no doubt in her mind that she had seen a man, and that that man had caused the explosion. Who _was_ he, and why had he caused such a thing? It hadn't been Riddle—the man had been slightly shorter, he hadn't been garbed in fine clothes; he had lacked that self-possession that Riddle had. There had been something wild and unsteady about that silhouette.

And why was Riddle denying it? Why had Riddle refused to even _listen_ to her?

She rose from her bed and went to the desk below the window. She was cold—the manor was even colder than Hogwarts—but she was too determined to care. She lit her wandtip and sat at her desk, and retrieved parchment and a quill.

A strange, alien thought occurred to her—what if her letters were read before being posted with the manor owl? She had never had to concern herself with such a thought before. But if Riddle truly were involved with the Dark Arts…

 _I'll send the owl tonight. It won't take all night to fly back to Hogwarts,_ she reasoned. _They won't even know it was gone._

She began to write with fervor.

 _Dear Professor Lupin—_

 _I have arrived at Selwyn, though not altogether safely._

Hesitating on how best to explain the evening, she dove into a quick, factual account of it. At the end, she added a note:

 _So far, Riddle has not turned me away. I suppose we shall see what tomorrow morning holds…_

 _Love,_

 _Hermione Granger_

She folded up the parchment and tucked it in her dressing gown. Her stomach growled—Lady Lestrange had not offered her any food, and she'd not eaten anything aside from the small meal on the road.

Perhaps she could have a small meal while she was at it.

On stockinged feet, Hermione left her room, her wandtip lit, as she padded along as silently as possible. The corridors were narrow and cold, and lined with faded, nameless portraits.

Was it quite wrong to write "love" at the end of her letter? It had seemed natural at the time, and as she recalled how she and Remus had gazed at each other before she had gotten into the fateful carriage, it felt right. But it was empty—no promise could be built on it; it spoiled a thing of innocence, didn't it?

Conflicted, she reached the bottom of one of the stairwells. She had no idea where they might store their owl. If she received a stipend, perhaps she would purchase her own, though she dreaded asking such a question, after Riddle had more or less been made a fool by Dumbledore.

The kitchen was bereft of House Elves. Moonlight streamed in through the low windows, casting long, deep shadows. Her best guess was that the owls were kept in the stables. She went to the door from which she had entered hours earlier, and her hand lingered on the door's handle for a moment before, decisively, she pushed it.

Once upon a time, years ago, she had received a lecture from Professor McGonagall for her behavior. She was too independent, she trod on people's feelings too much. She couldn't simply do as she pleased, McGonagall had explained; she had to learn to _think_ of how her actions were perceived.

She entered the night air, which froze her very bones. She could taste the salt of the sea on the air and the wind whipped her flimsy dressing gown about her frame as she picked her way through the stones towards the stables.

She thought of that same lecture now. McGonagall had told her that she had been called 'meddlesome' and 'entitled' by someone...she knew that someone to be Professor Snape. The lecture stuck out to her now because, at the time, she had almost agreed with the accusations—but she had not found them to be problematic.

She was certainly being meddlesome and entitled now.

She had learned to use her own resources to get by in this world. She had learned to do what she found to be right, to act and bear the consequences. Often she turned out to be right, anyway. Sneaking out in the dead of night to use the house's owl to send a letter—particularly when she might not even be here by the time the owl returned—might seem presumptuous but such an accusation meant nothing to her in the face of being able to achieve what was needed. She didn't need to appear a gentlewoman; she did not need anyone to like her, least of all a man.

 _But is it prudent to risk offending the man who now holds your future in the palm of his hand? a_ tiny voice in her mind queried. She let out a huff, the breath clouding in the air, as she reached the stables at last, her skirts and dressing gown sodden at the hem with dew and frost. She thought once more of that mysterious man on the hillside, and the flames that had so rocked the carriage—the incident had almost killed her.

Prudence was not the point, she decided, throwing open the door. There was something off about that man and she would find out what it was and, moreover, who _he_ was. She would not be stopped.

She never had been before. She thought of Remus, thought of his smooth lips, and pushed the thought down.

She found the owls. She tied her letter to the talon of a handsome tawny one and watched it flap off into the night, and for a moment took comfort in picturing Remus' hands untying the parchment, smoothing it out, and the furrow that would appear between his brows as he read her letter.

She left the warm comfort of the stable, and ventured back into the night. From this angle she looked at the back of Selwyn Hall, her brown eyes roving over its many windows and wings.

At the very top of the manor, barely visible in the night air, which would soon grow grey and purple with dawn, candlelight flickered in the window.

There, at the very highest window: a face.

And then it was gone.

She let out a shuddering breath as the hairs on the back of her neck tingled. It was likely one of the house's many inhabitants—after all, Riddle employed a full staff—but there had been something so very eerie about it. And after all, who would live in such an attic room, anyway? Could it be Lady Lestrange?

But never mind that—now she had the concern that she had been seen.

 _I'll just explain that I suffer from occasional sleeplessness and like to walk at night…_ she decided, wiping her now clammy palms on her dressing gown. She hastened back to the kitchen and opened and closed the door as silently as possible. She held her breath, ears pricked, listening for any other night walkers, but she heard nothing. Satisfied that she was safe, she tiptoed back towards the staircase, and hurried back to her room.

She never saw the dark shadow standing in the doorway, watching her movements.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Present Day_**

She lay in the bottom of the Transfigured rowboat, letting the sea toss her about, staring up at bleached clouds. She knew she didn't have time to grieve, but she wasn't ready to face reality yet. For a brief time she allowed herself to close her eyes and dream of simpler times, of times that might have been, though she could not wholly immerse herself in these illusions. She had never been given to daydreaming or wishing.

The sky grew darker and Hermione at long last sat up slowly, feeling the boat churn with the tide. Selwyn Hall's shores were not so far; she cast a spell with great effort, and the boat began to move against the tide, began to move north.

And _he_ still stood on the cliff face, his cloak flapping; she could see his elegant hands moving in the air as he attempted to locate her magically. But her wards were too strong, even with her newfound weakness—he'd taught her too well—and she was too far from him now. Empty within, she let the rowboat carry her further north, and watched as he disappeared from view—he was Apparating somewhere, though where, she could not say. Perhaps he imagined she would go to Hogwarts, though there was no reason for her to go there now. There was no one left alive there who could or would help her.

It was aching hours of agony within her spirit, and well past nightfall, nearing dawn, before she reached a safe shoreline. Black rocks jutted up out of the spray, leading to a sharp drop. Above it the grass mingled with snow. The blue fire she'd conjured did her little help and her teeth chattered but she hardly could notice. In desperation, she jetted the boat towards the shoreline and stumbled out of it, falling onto the rocks.

Shaking and frozen to her bones, and leaden with sorrow, she raised her head, searching deep within herself for the strength to go on. Above her stood a tall but hunched figure, his black robes thrown this way and that by the high November winds, his black hair nearly obscuring his face.

It was Severus Snape.

They gazed at each other, neither moving, before Hermione grit her teeth and pushed herself onward, climbing up the rocks. She heard a crash behind her—a wave hit her boat and demolished it, flinging pieces of Transfigured wood and scattering them among the rocks. She could have easily rebuilt the boat but it seemed symbolic...

...There was no turning back now.

When she looked back, she saw Snape's pale hand outstretched before her, silently offering her aid. She hesitated, then at last took it, her hands slippery from the saltwater. With surprising strength, he hauled her onto the grass, and she fell to her knees, shocked by how weak the journey had made her. Hermione rose to her feet on shaking legs and turned to face Severus, soaking wet, her hair in her face, and her eyes rimmed red with sadness. She couldn't stop shaking, and the world began to spin.

"I must..." she began, but then everything faded to black.

 _ **Two Years Ago**_

Hermione struggled to fall back to sleep. When she awoke, it was to incessant scratching at her window. It was just after dawn—she had only slept a few hours. The excitement of the day had worn off, leaving her body pulsing and aching all over from being thrown about the carriage. With a soft gasp of pain she sat up, to find a tawny owl pecking at her window, a response tied to its talons.

 _Remus._

Delightedly, Hermione forgot her pain and stumbled out of bed to let in the owl.

 _Dear Miss Granger,_

 _That is very strange indeed. Are you certain you were not mistaken? After all, you had been traveling for most of the day…_

Hermione scowled as her delight abruptly receded. Surely Remus did not think her a blithering fool?

She knew what she had seen.

 _However, I would not put it past Riddle to house other practitioners of the Dark Arts in Selwyn Hall. He is adept at connecting with others of his type and already possesses many connections. It is possible that you merely encountered a more wild consort of his…_

 _Please be careful at Selwyn, though I am certain you will be too occupied to be bothered with caution. I think of you constantly. The castle feels empty without your brilliance to light it up. I am a very lonely teacher now, I must admit._

 _Love,_

 _Remus_

She sank to the floor, her hands trembling at the familiarity of his signature. She pressed the letter to her breast, thinking of his brown eyes, which only held warmth and love for her, and felt her eyes burn.

He'd written _love._ He had signed it only his first name. What had she done, in turning away from what might have been?

All the same, she had made her decision. And she was no fool—she knew this letter could not be kept. It contained a serious accusation. She grappled for her wand and set the parchment alight, glumly watching it burn to nothing.

And yet—just before the flames closed around _'Love, Remus_ ' she put out the fire and hid the ashen remains of the parchment bearing his love in a book. Her secret, she thought, closing the heavy tome with tender hands and wet eyes.

"UP!"

Hermione gasped as her heart startled at the hammering on the door. "Lord Voldemort demands your presence," came Lady Lestrange's voice through the door. "Dress yourself and come to the front hall promptly."

 _Lord Voldemort?_

There was something about that name that sickened her.

Hermione dressed in one of her plain dresses and smoothed her hair. She did not bother with kohl or rouge or perfume like other ladies, not merely out of pragmatism but also out of a care for what Professor McGonagall had implied, and so, once dressed, she left her room, fisting her hands to hide their shaking, and wandered through Selwyn Hall on the search for the front hall, bearing a candle to guide her way. Though it was day, no daylight shone through the heavy emerald velvet drapes. It might as well have been the middle of the night.

The darkened halls were lined with ancient, peeling, cracked portraits, and as her candlelight cast them each in points of gold as she passed, she thought of the eerie face she'd spotted in the window last night.

 _Who lives there?_

But she had little time to ponder the subject, because she could hear loud voices now, and realized she was close to the front hall.

The front hall, which faced south, was no brighter than the corridors. It had massive pointed-arch windows that were blocked with heavy velvet drapes, the lighting so dim it was impossible to determine their color, though she would have bet her wand that they were emerald, too. The ceiling was high enough that she had to crane her neck to look, and the walls were lined with shelves and shelves of titleless leather-bound books and sheathed scrolls.

Near the hidden windows sat a large piano, dwarfed by an elaborate candelabra; and a very tall object hidden by long black velvet drapes, though a golden clawed foot was visible where the drapes did not quite reach. _It must be some sort of mirror,_ she deduced, studying the clawed foot. In another corner was an expansive desk, which she assumed was where Riddle—or, rather, Lord Voldemort—conducted his business.

But he was nowhere to be found. Instead, Lady Lestrange was arguing with a short, plump woman who reminded Hermione of a bullfrog both in stature and temperament.

"There it is," said Lady Lestrange in distaste. The way the other woman looked at her, it seemed this was perhaps the one place where she and Lady Lestrange might be coerced to agree. Not one to be cowed by such circumstances, Hermione straightened her back and smiled at the two women.

"Lord Voldemort will receive you shortly. Touch nothing," said Lady Lestrange silkily, before the two women exited.

Hermione stood in the center of the enormous room. She had come from the staircase above, and had been so intent on being timely that she hadn't noticed the shelves lining the second story of this room as well.

It had been decorated quite recently, compared to the rest of the manor. Given some sunlight and dusting, it would be quite a fashionable and attractive room. Hermione was just pondering the urge to sweep open the drapes when boots clicked along the flagstone.

It was Riddle, clad in elegant navy robes. He irritably flicked his wand, and the candelabra was set alight as he bypassed her and took a seat at his desk.

"So you can stop carriages from rolling off a cliff but you can't light a few candles? I suppose Hogwarts' focus has indeed changed," he observed, not looking at her as he swiftly opened a scroll lined with numbers. Hermione went to stand before his desk.

"Lady Lestrange said I should touch nothing," said Hermione now. Riddle glanced up at her, his dark brows quirked in amusement.

"I believe it is not necessarily your style to follow orders, if what I've heard is correct."

"Your information may be faulty. You didn't know I was a girl," she pointed out, then, in a moment of clenching horror, wondered if she ought to regret her tongue.

But Riddle snorted.

"Knowledge is power. I had an inkling you were not the strapping young Pureblood lad that Dumbledore implied you to be long before your carriage even left Hogwarts."

"You seemed rather surprised to me."

"I expected a pureblood, at the _very_ least," he shot back as he signed the parchment then set it aside. He settled back in his chair and regarded her with some interest. A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead and her fingers itched with the absurd urge to brush it aside.

He was young. Barely thirty, or at least, he looked it. He was studying her and she felt his gaze as prying and as invasive as if he were trailing his fingertips over her. She was not sure if she liked it or not. "You're very clearly not of Wizarding lineage; I can tell simply by looking at you. Your clothes are quite plain and poorly-made. You haven't got the Malfoy blond hair, or the Black freckles or mouth, or the Greengrass face...I could go on but I presume you see my point." He sighed. "It is one thing to be deceived about your sex. That alone would be an offense but, indeed, a surmountable one. Your blood status…" he trailed off, gazing at her, "...is another matter entirely."

It took a moment to imagine a response to that. He was so animated; there was cleverness in the lilt of his voice, in the arch of his brows, in the lines of his jaw. She could not take her eyes off of him. She had never seen a man quite so lovely. His beauty was enough to make a less logical woman believe in a divine creator.

There was a sly knowingness in his eyes then. He _knew_ she was admiring his beauty, had anticipated it, more likely. By the cut of his coat and the wave in his impossibly dark hair she knew he employed his handsomeness to its full advantage.

A surprising spike of dislike burst her admiration—she despised vanity and would not respect it.

"Is it so unforgivable?" she asked after a moment, hating how high and shrill her voice became. Horror was coursing through her. Without this, she had nothing...nothing but Remus, and though her heart ached for him, her heart ached for herself, too; her heart ached for the independence, the agency, she was on the precipice of losing. "Am I to be your apprentice or not?"

"So demanding, for someone so lowly," Riddle observed softly, his eyes roving over her. "You amuse me. You will stay."

She could think of nothing to say. She stared at him in shock and relief, waiting, but he simply stared back at her, his gaze piercing her. She had the horrible sensation that he had seen her innermost self, but she told herself it was entirely nonsense—unless there was a spell to read minds... "Interesting," he said after a moment. He resumed examining the scrolls. "I have business to attend to in London today; you will begin your training tomorrow. You are dismissed."

Hermione uncomfortably turned to go. As she neared the arch, Riddle's voice floated after her. "Oh, and next time, use a different owl. The tawny one is _mine_."

 ** _Present Day_**

Hermione woke to some potion being brought to her lips; she was under heavy blankets and the air was thick with the scent of rare herbs.

"Drink." Through bleary eyes, Hermione saw Severus, more haunted and gaunt than she had ever seen him. She did as told, recognizing the scent of the smoking potion to be the Pepper Up Potion, and at once felt more alive. When she sat up, she saw she was still wearing her dress and stockings, though her shoes had been removed.

"How long have I been out?"

Severus turned away and went to the cauldron at the center of the room.

"Perhaps an hour. Not very long. Your body is weak and possibly ill. There seems to have been an enchantment on the bounds of Selwyn Hall, preventing you from leaving. Bursting through it nearly killed you." Severus remained turned away from her as he spoke.

She had known—from the strange force she had felt for the past two years each time she came near the borders of the estate, to the weakness that had nearly overpowered her as she sat in the rowboat... Of course, _he_ would have thought ahead, would have planned... He had never learned to trust, had he?

"Has he come looking for me?"

"No, but it's only a matter of time," said Severus as he began pacing. "I've heavily warded this home but it will not hold for very long against _him_."

Hermione waited for him to order her to leave. It would be the wisest action on his part, if he had any sense of self-preservation at all. "We will need to develop a plan of action quite quickly," he continued, almost more to himself than to her. "Hogwarts Castle is not safe. He will look for you there. My home not safe—he does not know that I reside at this address but it will not take him long to learn, given how extensive his network of informants has grown."

Wrecked upon the rocks, soaking and near-death, she had not had chance to ponder the serendipity of coming upon Severus, but now it struck her.

"You magically lured me here," she breathed. "You must have your own network of informants at Selwyn," she concluded, attempting to stand. "Who? Who would take such a risk? All of the mail is intercepted-"

"Miss Granger, we run short of time," interrupted Severus. "We must act now. Gather your things. We will retreat to another hiding place. I cannot tell you here."

 ** _Two Years Ago_**

The pale face she had seen last night must have been Riddle's—she could not quite bring herself to call him Voldemort—then, for he had clearly been watching her, had clearly watched her steal his owl. Hermione hastened away from the front hall, her face flushed with embarrassment.

She found herself in a back corridor of the house. The narrow windows faced the inner garden, which held a frozen fountain and tangled remains of a garden within it. She could have sworn this hall was colder than the outdoors, and she wrapped her arms around herself as she walked along the windows, gazing at the courtyard outside.

This meant she had a whole day to become acclimated with her new home, to explore. But how much of Selwyn Hall was off limits to her? She recalled Remus' words, that the manor must hold so much history, so many secrets, and she was eager to dive in, but it seemed there must be eyes everywhere, watching her every move...

And why had Riddle chosen to take her on as an apprentice? What had made him do so, in spite of his quibbles of her blood status?

 _And why am I not more upset by his words?_

She set her jaw.

 _I knew what my independence was worth; I knew I would be willing to pay any price for it. If this is the price, then so be it._

Hermione went to her rooms and fetched some parchment and a quill, as well as a shawl, and then hastened to the stables where the owls were kept, keeping Riddle's request in mind, as she debated on what to write Remus.

She stood in the stables. There were a number of owls, and the tawny one was missing. Hermione frowned and knelt against the wall, watching the horses fidget and listening to them whicker.

 _Dear Remus_ ,

She blushed at her informality—but had he not signed the letter that way?

What was she doing, if not continuing a false promise? Nothing could come of such familiarity or tenderness, for she had chosen this path… But if she did one day meet him again… She closed her eyes, thinking once more of how his head had bent towards hers just the prior dawn, how close he had been, how his lips had almost claimed hers… Her heart was burning inside of her; why could she not have that kiss _and_ have her freedom, her magic?

Why must she choose, when no man had ever had to make such a choice?

 _Riddle seems to have accepted me as his apprentice. I begin my work tomorrow. I'm ever so nervous. I do not know what has made him choose to accept me. I suppose Dumbledore was right about him after all._

A moment's hesitation, and then...

 _I miss the castle very much already._

 _Love,_

 _Hermione_

Before she lost her nerve, Hermione tied the parchment to a plain-looking barn owl's talon and watched it swoop off towards Hogwarts. She let out a sigh.

What, exactly, was she doing?

Choosing to not think of it—really, there were hardly consequences for calling an old friend by his first name, particularly when she had no idea of when she might see him again—she returned to the Hall's main building. She was quite hungry, and uncertain of the expectations surrounding mealtimes here.

As she walked back towards the manor, she looked up at the window she had seen the face in just hours before. It was dark now, with no signs of life. It must be Riddle's room, there was no better explanation, and yet it left her feeling nettled all the same.

The kitchen was packed with House Elves when Hermione entered, and she was promptly shooed away by them, with the explanation that breakfast would be served at nine o'clock in the nearest dining room.

Hermione wandered the corridors, hoping to grow acquainted with the manor's floorplan. It was an enormous, sprawling place—already large, it had been magically expanded in a number of places. The very air tingled with powerful magic that she supposed must be Riddle's, and the sense of it invaded her like prying fingers tugging at her dress, pulling at her hair.

Along the corridors, doors were not only shut, but locked too. Hermione resisted the urge to try different doors, and returned to her room, intent on reviewing her notes from her various courses to prepare for tomorrow. She knew nothing of apprenticeship and had no one knowledgeable to ask on such a subject.

Her room faced the front of the manor, which faced south, and her desk was placed under the large windows. She sat at her desk and was about to read when noise caught her attention. She stood up and watched from the window as Riddle, on his magnificent black horse, garbed in a finely-made black traveling cloak, galloped toward the roads.

As he crested the hill, his horse reared, and he was momentarily silhouetted against the grey sky. Then he disappeared into fog, and she rested her chin in hand, thoughts of Remus once more banished as she pondered Riddle.

There was a knock at her door, disturbing her revision of her studies.

"Y-yes?" Hermione slid away from her desk and the door opened, revealing the toad-faced woman from before. She took up the entire breadth of the doorway, though she was barely taller than she was wide.

"My name is Lady Umbridge; you must be Lord Voldemort's new apprentice," she greeted, her voice unexpectedly girlish and sweet. She proffered a dainty curtsy, and Hermione balked before getting from her chair and returning the unexpected gesture. This woman had been rude to her before, and she found it unlikely that she had merely misread this woman—she would have to remember not to trust her.

"My name is Hermione Granger, ma'am," she said now, straightening. "I'm glad you've come by; I was wondering about the-"

"—I am here to instill within you the rules of Selwyn Hall," interrupted Lady Umbridge as she retrieved a long scroll from her apron pocket and flung it open. She made a little noise, as though clearing her throat, though it sounded quite false. Hermione pressed her lips together to stop herself from talking over Umbridge. "Rule number one: the apprentice shall not use any resources of his lordship, including but not limited to: fowl for letters, horses for riding, House Elves for personal errands and tasks, and books, parchment, and quills."

Hermione opened her mouth to argue but was silenced by Umbridge's strange little cough. "Rule number two: the apprentice is to make himself available for lessons and work between dawn and midnight." She glanced at Hermione as though she expected complaint, but this was one rule that would not trouble Hermione. She gave Umbridge a saccharine smile. "Rule number three," began Umbridge crisply, "the apprentice shall not, under any circumstances, exchange communication with anyone not currently residing at Selwyn Hall."

She could only consider this a gross overreaction to her letter to Remus. Hermione wondered if it had been intercepted. She thought of the scrap remaining from Remus' last letter, which contained his love. It was shut in the book on the desk behind her, and Hermione keenly felt its contraband presence as though it were flames teasing her back.

"Any other rules?" she asked now. Umbridge gave a silvery little laugh.

"Rule number four: the apprentice shall not take leave of Selwyn Hall for the duration of the apprenticeship under any circumstance, save for personal errands set by his lordship."

She would effectively be cut off from the world for _years._

Hermione felt the blood drain from her face, but she did not speak, for what could she possibly say to such a rule? "Rule number five: the apprentice shall consent to all tasks set by his lordship, without argument or contradiction."

Set by any other person this would likely be a reasonable rule, but Hermione could not forget what Remus had said about Riddle's history with the Dark Arts. She swallowed a lump in her throat.

If she chose to walk from this—an option that she suspected was not actually viable at this point—then she had nothing else. She would not be allowed to stay at Hogwarts. She would either have to find non-magic work in London, or find someone to marry her. She thought yet again of the clandestine scrap of parchment hidden in her book.

She could be Remus' wife, if that scrap of parchment contained his true heart. She'd live with him at Hogwarts, but would not possess the certification to actively practice magic. She would bear his children and raise them.

Her very blood turned to ice at the thought.

No magic, no control, just children and housework. No time for books, for learning, no say over funds or budget. And this was assuming Remus would even have her as a wife, which was certainly not a given.

And she could not— _would not—_ give up magic.

It was this or nothing.

...Perhaps she could negotiate more favorable terms once she proved herself to Riddle.

"Are there any other rules?" Hermione asked now. Umbridge let out another cough and retriever a second scroll of parchment.

"I will let you read through these yourself," she said sweetly, as the scroll unfurled...and unfurled...and unfurled...along the floor. Hermione bit her lip to hide her surprise, and returned Umbridge's sweet smile.

"Thank you, that looks manageable," she said just as sweetly, reaching for the scroll. "When is breakfast?"

Umbridge feigned a look of surprise.

"Well, it's whenever you like, of course. Though I must point out that, as per the rules, you may not make use of our food stock or House Elves." At that she turned and left a shocked Hermione before a chance of retaliation.

The scroll of rules seemed endless. She would not interact with anyone. She would not leave the manor. She would have to somehow come up with her own food, books, supplies, and anything else she should want or need. She would not disagree with Riddle, or turn down any request. She would receive approximately five hours of sleep per night; the rest of her time would be entirely devoted to learning.

 _You must respect yourself, no matter the cost._

When McGonagall had said that, perhaps she had not considered a situation such as this.

All day long, Hermione studied the scrolls with rules. There had to be a loophole, and once she found it, she would be able to renegotiate new rules. Though her stomach gnawed with hunger, she would not be put off from her task. The shadows grew long and then, as the sun disappeared behind the tangled woods to the west, her room became too dark for her to read.

And that was when she realized the loophole—it was so simple, yet so obvious. Hermione could only assume that her hunger had led to her missing something like this. But the loophole lay in the very first sentence, poised atop the long list of rules:

 _Below list the rules by which Lord Voldemort's apprentice must abide. The apprentice will read the rules in full and he shall inscribe his signature in a magically binding contract at the line below._

She lit a candle and set to work rewriting the rules on her own parchment.

After dusk she heard a commotion outside and watched as Riddle's magnificent black horse came to a slow trot as it reached the park of Selwyn Hall. Lady Umbridge and the man with the silvery hand rushed out to greet him as though he'd been gone for years.

Steeling her will, Hermione cast a drying spell on the ink of the scroll, rolled it up along with the old version, and began practicing what she might say to Riddle.

But he did not send for her, and, hours later when she was sure he must be settled in, she went to look for him, but there were no signs of life in the manor.

The halls were so dark. No candles were lit. Hermione walked with her wandtip lit, looking for signs of _anyone,_ her belly tight with desperate hunger. It seemed that, at this late hour, everyone had retreated to their rooms. Intrigued by the opportunity that this afforded, she went to the front hall, where those endless shelves of books were. This way, she would have privacy to browse through them at her leisure, without fear of Lady Lestrange or Umbridge interrupting her and scolding her...

But it seemed that, like Hogwarts, Selwyn was a place of magic and surprises, because the hall that led to the front hall appeared to simply be _missing_. Hermione stood in the general area, feeling the wall, and though the pure mechanics of the magic fascinated her, her ears began to ring, her palms growing clammy and her heart pounding like a drum, as she realized the implications of this magic.

No one could leave.

This incredible, fantastic, horrific magic meant that the main entrance was blocked off.

She stepped back and felt her lungs constrict, but before she could begin to genuinely panic, she heard distant footsteps. Instinctively she put out her wand light and ducked behind a tapestry.

Along slats of moonlight a figure was sliding in and out of view. The alabaster skin seemed to glow in each slat of light, like that of a ghost. The specter paused, its dark head beginning to tilt in her direction…

Hermione held her breath.

A pale, elegant hand reached toward her.

The floor creaked—was it her or that figure? Her hands were shaking so terribly that she knew she had given herself away by the parchment rustling in her fists as they trembled.

Moonlight flashed for an instant upon the face—and then-

Everything went dark as though the moon had been put out.

"Miss Granger—your lesson begins in quite a few hours from now; you needn't wait here _now_ ," Riddle's clear voice rang out, startling her enough that she nearly dropped her wand. The thick darkness was broken as Riddle appeared with his wand tip lit, wearing a simple but finely-made coat, his hair slightly mussed. He gave a short swipe of his wand and the tapestry blew aside, revealing her to him.

For a moment she could not speak; Riddle stood precisely where that horrible specter had, his elegant hand raised and holding his wand.

Was he the specter?

"I was simply-"

"—Looking for me?" He came upon her and slashed his wand once more; the scrolls flew from her hands. "Ah, Umbridge gave you the rules, and you decided to argue." He turned away from her as he examined the scrolls in a bored fashion. "Ah, very good, you found the loophole. You are correct—as you are not a _he_ , this contract is not binding for you."

He tossed the scrolls aside and turned back to her again, but her relief was eclipsed by her terror and confusion, and a lurching sense of _wrongness_ that could not be put right.

"There should be a hallway here," she insisted, too prickly to linger on the fact that the parchment of rules had apparently been a test he had put to her—and an idiotic one, at that. Riddle quirked a clever brow.

"To the books, yes," he said, his voice tinged with amusement, as he saw through her immediately. "I like my things where they are so I have arranged this manor to keep them where they are. You will have all the time in the world to look at them—in fact, you may find it too much time."

"But what about the rules? And what about my stipend?" Hermione pressed, as she stepped away from the tapestry, emboldened by the blood returning to her limbs. Riddle began walking back towards her rooms, and she followed him.

"We will discuss that tomorrow."

They stood before her carved door now, and he stepped just a hair too close for comfort. "Best not to linger in Selwyn's halls at night, Miss Granger," he murmured now. "Even I do not propose to know of all its secrets—or its inhabitants."

He raised his hand once more, free of the wand, and she heard that ringing again as her eyes fell upon the lovely lines of his hand.

In a curious move that, were his eyes not so dark and strange like the sea, could have been mistaken for affection, he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, which had escaped from its confines. "Good night, Miss Granger."


End file.
